Perfect Clarity
by Rhianwen
Summary: In which Wendy learns that no matter how well you think you know someone, they can still surprise you, and Joker learns that Wendy looks really, really good in his clothes. Based on a mini pencil board. Essentially PWP. Some light S&Mey content.


Perfect Clarity

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Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, and I'm sure neither they nor the guy who created them like me much right now. Or, like, the fandom.

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Summary: In which Wendy learns that no matter how well you think you know someone, they can still surprise you, and Joker learns that Wendy looks really, really good in his clothes. Based on a mini pencil board.

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She's always had a bit of a sixth sense when it comes to him; even if it's taken them all of their years together to get _this_ good at communicating without words, she came into this job with a natural flair for reading him.

It hadn't taken long at all before he had taken special notice of the simple, unaffected intuition she possessed at discerning the real meaning behind his words, and this silly little girl, the daughter of an associate's brother, had been called back for another summer internship, and then another, until her schooling was finished and her natural flair gained a bit more polish in other areas.

Since then, it has been a combination of the time and effort he has invested in her, and her time and effort convincing him to invest more, that has brought them to the point that words have become a vulgar superfluity.

Useful, of course, for _show_, a good way to lead _other_ people to conclusions more convenient than the truth.

But, as he's often told her with the combination of fondness, pride, and interest that has turned him into father, lover, and best friend all in one, _she_ always knows what he means.

And that's why she is so unprepared for the revelation that she has misunderstood; followed his thought process and arrived at the wrong conclusion; in short, misinterpreted.

It seemed clear enough; he took her aside and told her that he would be tied up here a while yet – there were some extra things that needed clearing up – but that there was no reason that she should wait with him. She should go ahead to his flat, let herself in, and wait for him there; he wouldn't be long, so she ought to be ready to begin immediately. And, he had added with a hint of a smile, just a faint quirk of the lips that had clinched his meaning in her mind, he'd have incentive to hurry if he knew she was waiting.

But apparently his meaning in her mind and his meaning in his own mind were two very different things, she thinks miserably, shrinking back from his gaze, stunned beyond words and yet sharply attentive to every detail a slight frame half-reclining on his desk, covered only by one of his work shirts, far too big for her and unbuttoned to reveal even more.

Resisting the urge to curl up into a humiliated little ball, to scramble off his desk and hide behind it, she keeps watching him, lips curving up into a tiny, placid smile; she's not going to move at all until he's told her to, because hasn't she already seen where taking the initiative will get her?

"That's one of mine, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir," she replies softly.

A long pause. He watches her thoughtfully.

"Do you enjoy putting yourself on display like this?"

She jumps slightly, and nearly falls off the desk, when he crosses the room in four long, quick strides and yanks the shirt back off her shoulders. Now she does curl, instinctively hugging her knees and looking away, flushed in miserable embarrassment.

"Get up," he orders, pulling her arms away.

Immediately, she slides off of his desk and hurries to the door. He catches her hand.

"I-I was going to go get dressed," she says hesitantly in response to the question in his eyes.

"I don't think you've answered my question yet," he murmurs against the top of her head as he pushes her back over to the desk. She hesitates.

"What?"

"Do you enjoy it?"

She twists slightly in his arms, trying to look up at him over her shoulder.

"Sir, I thought this was what—"

"Yes or no, please," he interrupts gently, spinning his desk chair about and sitting.

With an impatient noise and a roll of her eyes that she thinks it is just as well he can't see, she shrugs slightly.

"Em, yes."

It's true enough, after all. The faint scent of him, cologne and mint and something like fresh air, surrounded her when she pulled his shirt more tightly closed; recalled all of the times he's held her, both tightly, breathing harsh into her hair as she moved against him as seductively as she knew how, and gently, laughing softly as she snuggled closer and nearly purred in contentment. The thought of the approval that would light his eyes when he found her waiting just as he had asked, and the arousal that would mingle with it, made her welcome even the shock of cold through the thin fabric of his shirt when she hopped up on his desk, and the cramping in her arms from that awkward position, as a caress.

He smirks a bit.

"I thought as much. Sit," he orders, beckoning her closer and swivelling the chair about to face the window.

Awkwardly, she climbs into his lap, shifting uncomfortably and shivering when his hand slides down over her stomach and then up the inside of her thigh.

"Relax," he chuckles against her ear, nudging her thighs farther apart. "Think about your…captive audience."

When she tenses and tries to pull away, his arm tightens around her waist like a band of steel.

"You don't think anyone can see in here, do you?" She winces in shame at the little quiver in her voice.

With a soft laugh, he leans back and flips on his desk lamp.

"Not if we leave the lights out."

He can hear her breathing grow rapid with panic, even though he knows that she must know how impossible it is that they're being watched, but it hardly escapes his notice that she's stopped trying to pull away.

"You're going to leave it on?"

"And why not?" he asks very softly, one finger brushing feather-light through the dusting of fair curls growing damp with her arousal. "Haven't you just gotten through telling me that you enjoy being on display like this?"

"Yes, but I didn't mean—"

"Look, Wendy," he murmurs, his breath stirring the silken-fine hair at the back of her neck, one hand sliding up her body to lift her chin, the other parting her downy folds gently and exploring her deeply. "Someone in the building across from here; he's just walking past the window."

Her cry as his fingers brush gently against the agonizingly sensitive bundle of nerves buried there is both pleading and horrified, and when she tries to pull away, it somehow ends up translating into her hips shifting up into his touch.

"I imagine he'll be quite interested, if he happens to look over here," he continues, one hand drifting down over her throat to cup her breast, acutely, deliciously aware of both the little note of panicked misery in her soft moan and the way she's melting back against him, completely his, and obedient despite her embarrassment. "I'm sure you're beautiful right now: hair mussed up, flushed, eyes wild, moaning like a little whore…"

A sound distinctly like a strangled sob escapes her, followed by a soft sniffle, and when he feels a warm, wet teardrop land at his wrist and soak into the fabric of his shirt, his arousal goes from pleasant at the constant pressure of her firm, warm little backside grinding against him, to unbearable.

In one swift motion, he's bolted out of the chair, upending her along with him, and yanked the curtains shut.

"Sit," he orders tersely.

"Em…we might make a mess."

He glances at the gleaming surface indifferently, and then back at the flushed, trembling girl scrambling to cover herself.

"You know where the disinfectant and wood polish are. Now, sit."

She climbs onto his desk, stiffly and awkwardly because after all, that position was murder to hold for so long, and almost as soon as she's seated, he moves in closer, nudging her legs apart with one knee, burying his face in the curve of her neck, licking and nibbling at the tender skin. With a soft gasp, she slides one hand into his hair, the other at his back, and pulls him closer, legs winding compliantly around his waist when his hand finds her thigh.

"Patience, my dear," he laughs gently as she reaches for his zip.

Nevertheless, he lets her work deftly at his belt and button, and by the time those soft, smooth little hands of hers slide beneath the waistband of his boxers, he has almost forgotten exactly why patience was important in the first place.

After struggling out of his clothes as impatiently as she struggled to get them off of him, he pushes her abruptly back down against his desk, and then grasps her hips firmly, pulling her closer and lifting her slightly until his length slides teasingly along warm, soft skin already grown slick with need. She wriggles desperately against him, and he doesn't even try to stop it, and relishes the thread of pain in her gasp when he pulls her sharply against him, burying himself in her.

Each time he pulls her closer, he can hear her shoulders squeaking over the polished wood surface, can see her clutching futilely at the edge of the desk to hold herself still and wincing as an especially forceful movement jolts her and her head bounces against the sharp edge with a dull thud, can hear her whimper pleadingly as one small, slim hand finds her breast and she twists roughly at one nipple, and he bites back a groan, moving faster and harder against her.

The play of flat, wiry muscle beneath skin gleaming softly golden in the lamplight, her hair wild and spilling around her in stark contrast to the dark surface of the desk, the exquisite satin smoothness of her thighs clinging tightly to his hips; together, almost as intoxicating and as dangerous to his self-control as the tight, wet welcome of her body, and he is almost sorry when the knot of tension increases to breaking point and dissolves.

He lets go of her abruptly, groping for the edge of the desk, winded and slightly stunned. Then, as her soft noise of disappointment cuts through the fog around his mind, his fingers seek out the soft flesh at her core, slick with his release and her desperate need for release, and circle inside her in quick, steady strokes. When she tenses, one hand tightening over her breast and the other groping helplessly at the smooth polished wood, and clenches tightly around his fingers, her cry is almost enough to make him flip her over and pull her sharply back against him. But as she melts back against the desk with a long, shuddering sigh, eyes fluttering open briefly to meet his and then closed again, soft pink mouth curving into a slight smile, the idea of sitting down next to her and gathering her into his arms seems far more appealing.

She looks up, startled, when she finds herself pulled closer, half-lifted and half-dragged into his lap, then snuggles against his chest. After all, this happens seldom enough that she's damn well going to enjoy every minute.

At his deep, warm chuckle, she feels a responding bubble of laughter blossoming, bordering on giddy with relief.

"Does this mean you're not still angry with me for borrowing your shirt?"

He looks down at her, astonished.

"Of course not. Although, I'd like to know what possessed you to leave the curtains open; you know I don't share."

She smiles sheepishly. Of course she knew that. What a silly thing to forget.

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End Notes: Eheh...uh, yeah. I tried to write a cutesy, fluffy, happy lemon based on that drawing of Wendy perched on Joker's desk in only a dress shirt, and this is what happened. Go me:D


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